


Insatiable 2

by Caro Dee (Caro_Dee)



Series: Insatiable [8]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, POV First Person, Scent Marking, Sentinel Senses, Sex Addiction, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Molestation of Sleeping/Unconscious Person, Sexual Obsession, Stalking, Trespassing, Voyeurism, WNGWJLEO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-13
Updated: 2011-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caro_Dee/pseuds/Caro%20Dee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair isn't oblivious any more and confronts Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insatiable 2

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a fixit. Insatiable ended with Jim slowly disintegrating. I wrote it because I wanted to see what would happen when Blair found out. This is as happy an ending as I could wrench out of the circumstances. I hope you enjoy it.  
> Written in June 2003 and betaed by the folks over at Senbeta, with special thanks to ShayAlyce, Rebel Dante, and Bluewolf for grammar and plot holes. Any mistakes left are places where I chose not to follow their advice.

Something's wrong with Jim. I'm not sure what it is. His senses seem to be doing okay. None of his cases are especially difficult. He hasn't broken up with Heather. I can't figure out what it is. But there's a bleak look in his eyes that disturbs me and I think he's losing weight.

I don't think the problem is us. At least, there's nothing I can think of that I've done recently. He's been pretty solicitous since I got out of the hospital three weeks ago--feeding me, bringing me small gifts, making extra trips to the library. Maybe he's still freaking because I was hurt so badly. Maybe that's it.

I'm gonna have to sit Jim down and pull some teeth until he talks.

Yeah, like that'll work.

* * *

I've had the weirdest feeling for a while now... like I'm being watched. Or I'll wake up and just _know_ someone's been in my room. Yeah, I know. Like that could happen under Jim's watchful Sentinel eye. So I figure, 'Hey, I've got a ghost.'

I know a friend of a friend who's pretty psychic, so I invite her over to find out who my ghost is.

Boy, was _that_ embarrassing! Stella steps over the threshold of the loft and turns bright red. She starts eyeing me like I'm a serial killer. I have to talk pretty fast to get her to even step into my bedroom while I'm standing way over here by the balcony.

She's in there, like, two seconds and comes out babbling that I might have a ghost or I might not, but there's no telling over the amount of free-floating sexual energy in the environment. Then she gives me a look like she thinks I'm gonna ravish her right then and there, and darts out of the loft.

My mouth is hanging as I stare at the open door and the sound of her running footsteps disappearing down the hall. What the hell?

I mean, I jerk off as much as the next guy, but not abnormally so. And my fantasies are pretty straightforward. Absolutely no rape or hurting or anything.

Now I'm feeling like a total perv. Sheeesh....

* * *

So, the next thing I try is something my friend Eddy calls a 'Nannycam.' Since Eddy doesn't have kids, but he does have two female roommates, one of whom is a real looker, I have a slight suspicion what he's been watching. But, hey, he's nice enough to lend it to me for free and I've got no proof.

Eddy tells me it's got night vision and motion activation, which means it only works when something's moving, in order to avoid many thrilling hours of me snoring. I set it up on my bookshelf and angle it to catch most of my room. I set a South American doll Naomi gave me over it and decide that's enough to blend it in. Then I go to bed.

The next day, I'm sitting there watching the tape for the second time in horrified fascination, because I can't fucking believe my eyes. This can't be happening. No way. No how.

If Jim hadn't been on stakeout last night, I'd have asked him to help me set it up.

The tape shows me getting ready for bed, then short segments of me shifting or rolling over in bed. Then suddenly somebody's there in the room, crouching over my bed. The first time I saw that, I actually jumped, then relaxed when I saw it was Jim. Then I go, "Hey, what is Jim doing in my room in the middle of the night stark naked?" Then it becomes perfectly clear what Jim is doing. And it's like my whole world is crashing around my ears.

Because this can't be my Jim. My Jim is good and honest and honorable, not to mention straight. Jim likes tall, gorgeous redheads with nice boobs. Last time I looked, no boobs here. No tall and gorgeous, either.

That's got to be some Impostor Jim sneaking into people's bedrooms and, Jesus Holy Fucking Christ, sticking his nose in my crotch while his hand is oh-so-busy in his own lap. The quality of the tape is pretty poor, but it's clear enough to show that Impostor Jim is having himself a real good time.

Then, after the grand finale, that's when THE _REALLY_ FUCKING WEIRD THING happens!

Impostor Jim brings up his hand dripping with his come and dips the forefinger and thumb of the other hand in it. Then he carefully separates a thin strand of my hair and coats it with come. Then he dips and coats another strand. It's like he's giving me a come streak job. He's looking pretty intent, like he needs to get it JUST RIGHT. After about a dozen strands, he looks satisfied, admires his handiwork for a minute, and just gets up and walks out. How freaky is that?

The gross thing is that I remember thinking my hair felt kinda crunchy this morning, so I decided to wash it.

That Stella.... Man, is she one freaking fantastic psychic or what!

* * *

So Jim comes home.

I'm sitting there pretending to watch TV, heart racing, trying to be calm, trying not to startle the crazy man.

Jim frowns at me. "You okay there, Chief? Your heart's beating kind of fast. Something wrong?"

I squint at Jim. He sounds perfectly normal. He looks perfectly normal.

I'm peering into his eyes, trying to find some guilty hint of Impostor Jim, some lunatic twitching or something. Nope... eyes clear and guileless, filling up with annoyance at my continuing silence. Yup, normal.

"No, Jim--" I say slowly. "I'm fine."

"You're acting weird, Sandburg. Knock it off." He heads to the fridge, grabs two beers and holds one out to me.

I reach out and take it. Maybe beer will help.

The rest of the evening is weirdly surreal. We argue about whose turn it is to fix dinner, talk guy talk over sandwiches and beer, do the washing up, argue about what we're watching on TV. I'm off my stride, so I don't give it my best shot, and Jim wins. He triumphantly aims the remote and we're watching some Segal action flick tonight. Joy.

It's all so normal, it could be the Ozzie and Harriet show. In a strange, twisted universe.

I'm watching him like a hawk, analyzing the tone and content of every word, every action. Nothing. Even when he touches me, there's no icky vibe.

Naomi made sure I knew the icky vibe before I was five years old. She never doubted me when the icky vibe showed up, just packed us up and split. I've always trusted it and it's never failed me. Except now.

I've known Jim for over three years. He's my best friend. He's opened his home and his life to me. He's my Sentinel, for God's sake. I trust him with my life and he's proven worthy of that trust again and again. So we've had a few fallings out over the years. We've made up.

I'm starting to wonder if I somehow imagined the tape. Or maybe I slipped sideways into some other universe whose Jim is a creepy perv and now I'm back home again.

So, when I go to bed tonight, I sprinkle the faintest dusting of all-natural, unscented talcum powder on the floor between my bed and the door.

In the morning, I'm crouched over the floor staring at faint smudges all through the powder. Busted.

At breakfast, I detect the first faint hint of nervousness in Jim's manner.

'Of course,' I think, 'just because it's unscented doesn't mean that Jim can't smell it. He's just not sure whether I spilled it by accident or not.'

I feel numb inside, so icy that I have no problem acting calm and normal. I smile at Jim cheerfully, grab my pack, and I'm out the door. By the time I reach my car, I'm starting to warm up, starting to shake.

I've got a choice. I can sit here in my car and be Hysterical Guy, screaming inside my head and gibbering in terror and outrage, or I can take action. Research Man to the rescue, armed with knowledge to negotiate the mazes of this insane situation.

Okay, the library it is....

* * *

Hours later, I am banging my head on the library table and swearing to myself. How the hell could I not have seen this coming?

When I first started studying Jim, I did have questions about how his sexuality was manifesting. Guess I was a little too Beavis and Butthead about it, because Jim drew the line--no more questions about his sex life. So I figured it wasn't that important, better to not antagonize the grumpy Sentinel, especially when there was so much else to concentrate on.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I've spent the morning looking over the literature in Clinical Psychology, studying the pleasure center in the human brain.

There's a classic study in this field, where rats had electrodes inserted in their pleasure centers and were put in a cage with two levers. Push one lever, they got a rat pellet. Push the other, they got a jolt to the pleasure center. The rats pushed the second lever over and over again. They chose pleasure over food and slowly starved to death.

All addictive behavior activates the pleasure center and releases pleasure endorphins. It doesn't matter what--drugs, cigarettes, alcohol, gambling, sex--they activate the same parts of the brain. It's why we get addicted in the first place. Then we're driven to repeat the behavior over and over again, looking for the high.

And that's just normal physiology. I can't even imagine how the Sentinel brain, with its ability to process higher stimulus, reacts. It would be like the difference between pot and the most refined, high-quality crack. 'God,' I think hysterically, 'this was almost inevitable.'

Grimly, I remember finding Jim zoned in the middle of masturbating. A zone would be nature's way of cutting off stimulus that's going too high. We worked out a long time ago that focusing on me circumvents the zoning factor and Jim╒s clearly adapted that. For a moment, I consider the possibility that this is one more control mechanism hooking the sentinel into the tribe's needs via the guide. The idea is intriguing, but so cold that I really don't want to think about it. All those poor sentinels being led around by their dicks.... The possibilities for abuse of power make me shudder.

No one's abusing my Sentinel, not while I'm here to stop it. Abusing. Heh-heh. Jim's abusing himself. Oh God. I'm so losing it here. Jim, Jim... I fucked up bad, man.

I decide I need a break and go get some lunch. When I get back, I'll start researching sexual addiction and recommended therapy practices. Although I have no idea if normal therapy will be effective on Jim.

* * *

So, I decide the best way to handle this is direct confrontation. I am a little freaked at not knowing how Jim will react and give in to an impulse to call Simon.

"Captain Banks."

"Hey, Simon."

"What do you want, Sandburg?"

"Well, I just thought you might like to know that I have no plans to leave Cascade for any reason at all or, um, not show up at the station regularly."

"What are you babbling about, Sandburg?"

"Nothing. Just that I'll definitely call you again tomorrow. Okay?"

Simon's voice turns suspicious. "Are you okay? Is someone standing there making you say this?"

"No, no, Simon. Just... letting you know I'm happy with the way things are. No reason for me to move on, no reason at all."

"Sandburg..."

"Oh, and there's no need to mention this little conversation to Jim. Okay?"

Simon heaves a long-suffering sigh. "This is some Sentinel thing. Right? I don't want to know what this is about. Right?"

"Oh, believe me, Simon, you _so_ don't want to know this. Remember, I'll call you tomorrow. Bye."

Okay, now that I've successfully freaked Simon as well, I need to get busy.

I run out to pick up a six-pack of Jim's favorite beer and a big bag of potato chips at the grocery store, and thick, rare roast beef sandwiches from this great new deli I found last week. Comfort food, which I figure we're both gonna need. As an afterthought, I pick up a dozen buttermilk donuts. I know, overkill but my strategy is, if Jim goes postal on me, I can throw donuts at him and make a break for the door.

When Jim comes home, I know he knows something's wrong. His eyes are wary and suspicious in his blank face. There's belligerence in his stance.

He comes over to where I'm sitting in the living room, watching nothing in particular, remote in my hand.

"Simon tells me he got a really strange call from you. Wanted to know if you were all right. You all right, Chief?" He's looming over me in that charming, 'Don't mess with me, I'm bigger than you and I'll rip your head off' way that he has.

Oh, thank you very much, Simon. You asshole.

Okay, we are obviously skipping the casual warm-up now. I look up at Jim calmly. "I don't know, Jim. Why don't you tell me? Right after you tell me what's happening here." I point the remote and turn on the VCR. I've cued the tape to the bizarre hairdressing ritual. "Why don't you explain _this_ to me?"

Jim stares at the tape for a few seconds before his knees buckle and he hits the sofa. He drops his head in his hands and just sits there.

"I understand what was going on right before this, but the meaning of _this_ little ritual just beats the heck out of me. What do you think this means?"

Jim just sits there, frozen.

I am relentless. "Answer me, Jim."

Jim lifts his head and I almost drop my calm facade. Jim's face is pale and his eyes.... I've never seen such terror. Jim is absolutely terrified of me. Whoa.

He clears his throat miserably. "Scent marking."

"Huh?"

"Scent marking. I'm putting my scent on you to claim you and to warn other people away from you."

I stare at Jim with incomprehension. That's either insane or a whole new realm of Sentinel consciousness I haven't encountered yet. Maybe it's both.

"I think you'd better start at the beginning and, Jim... you'd better tell me everything."

Slowly, haltingly, head hanging down over his knees, he does. It begins the way I theorized and then, as Jim goes on and on, I feel a growing sense of dismay. This is even bigger than I feared, this addiction taking over all facets of Jim's life. I hear his justifications, his fantasy of an actual romantic relationship between us, the increasing litany of experimentation.

I am half in awe at the scope of Jim's creativity, and half-terrified by the risks he's been taking. Some of that stuff sounds dangerous! And this has been going on for almost three years around me? Jesus. Was I brain-dead?

I become aware that Jim is slowing down, his voice hoarse, his hands clenching over and over in his lap. He looks up at me and I'm horrified to see the extent of his fear and shame, tears leaking down the sides of his face.

"Oh, Jim," I say, and reach out for him. He gasps and slides over, resting his head on my shoulder and shaking. I rock him in my arms and murmur reassurances as he sobs and begs me not to leave him. My mind is reeling and I don't know how we're going to handle this, just that we have to. Jim is my best friend and my Sentinel and, no matter how pissed or scared I am, I don't want to lose him over this.

The only other thing I'm certain of is that I've got to get a lock on my bedroom door. Maybe a Rottweiler while I'm at it.

And I'm definitely doing my own laundry from now on.

I let go of Jim and leave a box of tissues next to him. Giving him time to process having been caught, I putter around the kitchen, getting dinner ready and making normal sounds.

"Hey, Jim, get your butt over here or I'm not leaving you any roast beef."

Jim comes up and looks over the table, noticing that I've gotten this food for him. Not a sprout in sight. The only vegetables on the table are the tomato and iceberg lettuce on the sandwiches. His eyes are still red, but otherwise he seems calm. I notice his shoulders relaxing a little as he sits down and reaches for his beer.

"So, Simon squealed on me, huh? After I told him not to tell you. I'll just have to think of some way to thank him," I say darkly.

"Why'd you call him, Blair? Did you really think I was going to hurt you?" Jim's voice is filled with sadness.

I stare down at my sandwich with fascination, and squirm. "No... not really, Jim. I know you would never hurt me physically." This is really good roast beef, moist and pink. Just right. "It's more like I had this image of being carted off and chained up in some remote mountain cabin or something." I look up reassuringly at Jim and would have been much more reassured myself if I hadn't seen the momentary thoughtful expression cross his face. Oh Jesus. Chills run through me. I'm suddenly afraid it wasn't such a stupid idea after all, calling Simon.

"So, what happens now?" Jim's looking at me intently. "Are you moving out?"

"No, Jim," I hasten to reassure him. Don't spook the Sentinel. "I don't want to move out. You're my best friend and I'm happy here. We can find a way to deal with this."

"What does 'deal with it' mean?" Jim's looking wary, starting to figure out that 'things... they are a-changing,' and not too happy with the idea.

I look him straight in the eye. "You can't be sneaking into my room at night anymore, Jim. I don't consent to it and it has to stop."

Now it's Jim's turn to stare down at his plate, mouth pressed together stubbornly. He looks up at me, his eyes sullen. "I don't need to be in your room. I can sense you from anywhere in the loft."

I run my hands through my hair and sigh with frustration. "Look, Jim... I know that. I also know that what a person fantasizes about is their own business. I can't stop you there, but I don't necessarily want to know about it. However, you're watching me and touching me in my sleep. That's criminal behavior and you're a cop. It... has... to... stop. Or I have to move out. It's your choice."

Jim hasn't got a leg to stand on here and he knows it, muttering and reluctantly promising. I'm not buying it--he agreed too quickly--but I take my victory graciously and make a note to myself to definitely call the locksmith in the morning.

Then I bring up the subject of therapy. Jim balks big time. He's up, pacing the loft and raising his voice angrily as he insists that he's not letting any shrinks stick their noses into his private business, he has this all under control, shrinks are quacks that should be run out of town, he's got a right to have sex any way he wants, when did I get so intolerant, I'm just jealous that I'm not a sentinel, etc.

I listen patiently, noting the real unease and defensiveness under the anger. Jim's feeling completely out of control and he's not going to make himself vulnerable to a total stranger. I make backing off noises and decide to wait a while before bringing it up again. Because we are having this conversation again. And again. Until Jim goes to the therapist.

Jim's still doing his alpha display, rolling his shoulders and huffing, as I talk him into sitting down and finishing his dinner. I get him another beer and he grabs it out of my hand and chugs it down in big, angry gulps.

Slowly, he calms down. I'm talking about this and that, and keeping an eye on him, and when I think the timing is right, I tell him about Stella's visit. Jim bursts out laughing and chokes on his sandwich, spraying chewed roast beef and bread all over the table. Gross. He can't stop laughing to catch his breath. I'm grinning as I whack him on the back. Can I tell a story or what?

It's reassuring to both of us that the friendship is still there.

* * *

The next day is just as busy as the previous. I schedule the locksmith, return Eddy's Nannycam with my thanks, remember to call Simon and issue vague but dire promises of retribution. Terrorizing Simon puts me in a good mood and I can face the next thing I have to do.

I carefully document what's been going on, leaving out the Sentinel information. Let them think Jim is a run-of-the-mill obsessed, crazy stalker. Simon will know different. I stuff it in an envelope, with the tape, then I run it out to a friend of mine, who's dependable as a rock and who Jim's never met. I make arrangements to call him every week on Tuesdays from a pay phone and, if I miss more than one week in a row, he's to mail the package to Jack Kelso.

I hate to do this because I love Jim, but I'm not willing to spend the rest of my life locked up in some basement, reduced to a sentinel sex toy. If Jim behaves himself, he'll never need to know that I've done this. If he doesn't.... Well, all I can say is, 'Help! Get me out of here!'

Jim comes home from work and I've had the lock installed. He notices right away. He looks at that lock and then looks at me. The expression in his eyes is betrayal and hurt that I don't trust him. Yeah right, Jim. Then something shifty and sly slides through his eyes.

I narrow my eyes back at him, thinking fast. I'm gonna have to remember to hang something on the doorknob to block the keyhole. Squares of rubber-backed curtain material are thumbtacked over the windows and not even Superman with his X-ray eyes could penetrate those babies. For a second, the image of Jim peering at me from the fire escape flashes before me. Then I dismiss it. Jim may be a sneaky, obsessed asshole, but he's way smarter than that. I stare at him, wondering what he's come up with to circumvent my lock. 'Cause the bastard's smirking as he heads to the kitchen for a beer.

Jim twists the top off the bottle and slings it in the trash. He's leaning back against the counter, and staring at me with narrowed, amused eyes. "Do you think a lock's strong enough to keep me out, Blair?"

"Yes, Jim, I do. Because I put that lock there and I'm asking you to respect my choice. Or isn't that my room anymore?" A bit of a low blow there, but I think it's necessary.

Jim takes a long pull at his bottle, his eyes cool and assessing. I'm feeling uncomfortable. Jim's not the broken man he was yesterday. I don't understand this Jim, and that makes me nervous.

"You don't want me sneaking around behind your back." Jim moves over to the sink and rinses out his beer bottle to put in the recycling. He stands there looking at me, a subtle challenge in his stance, the tilt of his head. "You think we should bring it all out in the open. Talk about it. Process it. Well, you got it, Chief. Think you can handle it?"

Watching Jim walk out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom, I get a sinking feeling that this is way more than I can handle on my own. Time to start looking for referrals to therapists specializing in the area of sex addiction.

* * *

A week later, I'm ready to scream and tear my hair out in frustration. Jim's secret smirky plan is obviously to drive me as crazy as he is.

I can't believe it, but Jim--James Ellison, Cop of the Year, Ranger Jim, the strong, silent, gruff warrior that I've studied and followed and respected for years--bears an uncanny resemblance to one of those small yappy dogs that desperately hump your leg. You know--you shove them away and they don't even blink before they're back trying again.

Now that I've found out and I haven't pressed charges or moved out of the loft or killed him, he's not even trying to be subtle about it. Quite the opposite, in fact. Since I locked my bedroom door, denying him access behind my back, he's switched to doing it in front of me. He stops just short of doing it in the same room, for which I am profoundly grateful. I know he's testing me. Challenging me to prove that I won't leave, that I can deal with this. I'm trying to prove it to myself.

He stares at me continuously, eyes hooded and hot and his nostrils flaring as he scents me from across the room. He follows me around the apartment, standing or sitting as close as I'll let him. And he touches me all the time. Stroking my arm, my back. Fiddling with my hair. Sliding his body past mine as we work in the kitchen or pass in the hallway.

I used to be surprised that Jim was so comfortable with expressing affection physically. Now, I know he's stimulating himself. Come on, dropping his fork at every meal so he has to go under the table to pick it up? Does he really think that I haven't figured out that he's sniffing my crotch? Jeez.

This is pushing all my buttons, but I'm not letting Jim win. Because if Jim wins, we lose. Hell, maybe he's even expecting that. At least he's backing off when I call him on it. He'll go away and leave me alone for an hour and then come right back again later. Until I get tired of it and just ignore him, reminding myself firmly, 'Jim has a problem. This is not Jim. It's his addiction acting out.'

I can't help noticing that he's hard most of the time. The whole apartment seems charged with sexual energy. No wonder Stella freaked. It's tough to breathe in here sometimes.

At least he's totally professional at work. We step out the door and it's like he's a different person, the Jim I've known all these years. I really _get_ that he was good at undercover work, because he's been obsessed for years and I never once suspected. Which is totally amazing to me, now that he's not hiding the depth of his obsession anymore. How the hell did he keep all that locked up? I try not to think too much about it while I'm taking the chance to decompress, relying on Jim's work ethic to give me some breathing space, to remind me of the other side of Jim, the side that's worth sticking around for.

Because when we get home, it starts all over again. Jim comes in, hangs up his coat, and then his whole body shifts into this sexually aware primal creature sniffing around me.

I feel like a piece of meat. Grade A filet mignon, I'll admit. It is flattering, in a creepy, annoying sort of way. I'll even admit it's kind of a turn-on that Jim wants me so badly. Although, I don't let it go to my head, since I'm not really Jim's type. Obviously, my real attraction is not my good looks or my debonair charm, but my guide ability to thwart zones.

Sometimes, when I'm especially aware of his presence, Jim gets this smug smile on his face, like he knows a secret. Then he starts leaning in towards me and I get this panicked fear that he's going to kiss me. That's when I move into the bedroom and close the door.

Tonight, while he was doing the dishes, I caught him licking my used fork. He stared at me defiantly and tongued it obscenely until I looked away. Then he left the dishes unfinished in the sink and went up to his bedroom. After a few minutes, the moaning started.

He does that. A lot.

One minute, he's following me around, then, suddenly, he disappears. Into the bathroom. Up to his bedroom. Once, I found him in my bed with my pillow clutched to his face, rubbing off on my sheets. Okay, that was over the line. I got really pissed, and made him change the sheets and promise not to do that again. Now I keep the door locked even in the daytime.

So he disappears and the sound effects start--moans, groans, sighs, sobs, wails, screams. Sometimes it seems like he's on the verge of pain, then he'll burst out with a cry so full of ecstasy that I can almost taste how good it is. That's when I get hard and have to think about gross, disgusting, distracting things, like slugs and earwax and Chancellor Edwards.

I can always tell when he's coming. His vocalizations get a kind of stuttery quality to them, like his sense of reality is flickering in and out on him. Then silence and, after a few minutes, Jim will show up again, face flushed, grinning like an idiot. A big, fat, happy idiot.

And I'm left frantically thinking of some excuse to leave the loft and drive somewhere, preferably five miles away, where I can take care of myself. I run a lot of errands that week. Hey, you try living in the middle of a porn movie for days on end and see how you handle it.

And this happens three or four times a day! More on weekends! I mean, come on, the man's in his mid-thirties. He shouldn't be able to get it up this much.

Okay, I'll admit it. I've got Sentinel envy. It's that fatal sense of curiosity. I know the dangers, but, you know, I'd love to experience sentinel sex myself... just once, just to know. Because it has got to be absolutely incredible.

Jim comes back down the stairs and this time something's changed. For one thing, there's no goofy grin on his face. Actually, he looks kind of... determined? For another, he's not wearing anything but his boxers. I can see the sex flush all over his chest and the sweat from his exertion.

He walks over to the sink and starts finishing up the dishes. He notices me looking and looks back with a flat, unreadable stare. Then he does something that totally catches me by surprise. Still looking at me over his shoulder, he lifts his arms up and stretches, muscles bunching and shifting all over his back. My jaw drops. Holding my gaze, he turns to face me and stretches again, his amazing chest expanding.... Heart pounding, I fix my eyes on my psychology text, like it's the most fascinating thing since Sir Richard Burton's monograph. After a minute, the sound of dishwashing starts again.

Jesus! Jim was... that was... Jim was displaying himself for me. That was courtship display. As an anthropologist, I know courtship display when it reaches out and hits me in the gut. Jim's ignoring the fact that I'm straight. Okay, there was that one undergrad crush, but I was sixteen and _looked_ fourteen and he never came near me. Then I got older, women started looking back, and I've been happily pursuing them ever since.

I decide I am in deep trouble here.

* * *

The next day, I'm sure of it. Jim's trying to seduce me.

As usual, Jim was completely professional at work. Using information I dug up out of a newspaper archive, we broke a case we've been working on for a couple of weeks. Simon congratulated us on the good work. It felt great, completely normal, like old times.

So, on the way home, I suggest we pick up barbecue to reward ourselves. Not my greatest idea ever.

Jim decides to play show and tell. Between nibbling on the ribs and licking sauce off his fingers, Jim shows me in graphic mime just exactly how he would like to suck my cock. He pays loving, focused attention to a rib, then flashes me a look that screams, 'This could be you!'

It doesn't help that Jim's once again stripped down to his boxers, claiming that he doesn't want to get barbecue stains on his clothes.

I am starting to feel very cranky, when Jim drops his fork. He pushes his chair back and I thrust out my leg and hook my foot around the rung, pulling him back. "No!"

"But--"

"No way, buddy!" He does not need to be down there, sniffing my hard-on. "You don't need a fork with barbecue."

"I need it for my coleslaw," he mutters, sullenly.

"Use your fingers!" I snarl. He grumbles a bit, then starts eating again.

I notice him smiling into his ribs. The bastard thinks he's getting to me.

After we rinse and toss the takeout dishes into the recycling and scrub off the barbecue sauce, it's time for the Jags. I take one couch, Jim takes the other. We each have our beer. We're good to go. It looks to be a pretty good game tonight and my bad mood lifts.

After one awesome play, I turn to Jim and almost choke. He's sitting there, eyes intent on the game, lightly stroking the bottom of his beer bottle over his hard-on. "Jim!" I protest.

He rolls his head over to look at me and smiles. "What, Chief?"

"Don't you want some privacy for that, man?"

"Not really," he shakes his head and takes a slug of his beer. There goes the bottle, back down rubbing his....

Um, I look away.

"I mean, I can sense you from any room in the loft. It's like I'm right there next to you. So I might as well be. Besides, I want to watch the game. Don't look at me if you don't want to."

Okay. I'll just sit here and watch the Jags very intently while my male roommate jacks off on the other sofa. No problem, man. I've faced down scarier things than you during tribal religious rites. I can handle this.

A few minutes later, I sneak a peek. He's still staring at me. "I thought you wanted to watch the game."

"I am. I can see the reflection of the TV in your eyes."

Oh man. I start snickering.

"What? What's so funny?"

"That sounds like the dumbest pick up line ever invented."

Jim laughs with me and, for a few moments, it's like it used to be.

Then Jim says, "Blair."

I look over at him. His face is open from the laughter and his eyes shine at me, showing joy and maybe... love? Heat flashes over me and I can feel the flush on my face. I know Jim can feel it way over there. I'm flustered and look down.

"Blair, look at me. It's okay. Look at me." Jim's voice is gentle and warm... coaxing.

I slowly raise my eyes.

He's looking at me and his face is soft. His hands run slowly over his chest, circling his nipples, down over his abs, around his groin. He spreads his legs open and runs his hands over his inner thighs. I can see the outline of his hard-on.

"All those years, Blair... all those years when I was loving you, you never looked at me. You were always in another room, or your back was turned to me. I want to see your eyes when I come, Blair. I want that so much."

I stare at him, embarrassed and flushed.

He whispers, "Please, Blair. Let me have this."

There's something in my throat. I must be crazy. I swallow hard and nod. "So long as we agree that I'm just sitting over here on this sofa and no touching."

Jim closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them to gaze lovingly at me. "Thank you, Blair."

He continues to run his fingertips over his chest. His eyes are wide open, hypnotic, gazing into mine, as he caresses his fingertips up and down the sensitive skin. It looks like he's offering himself to me and I know with absolute certainty that if I got up and walked over to Jim, he'd let me do anything to him. I shiver and Jim smiles happily at me.

Jim slides his boxers down and kicks them off, far more gracefully than I could have managed. He lies back, raises his arms over his head and stretches. It echoes his display last night, only, instead of challenging me, this time his expression is pure invitation. 'Look at me,' it says. 'You have the right to look at me.'

I look. His cock is large and well-shaped, a rosy color against the whiteness of his skin. My eyes travel up his long, muscular legs to the Greek statue perfection of his torso, the broadness of his shoulders and strong arms. I realize, with vague surprise, that Jim is beautiful.

Everybody knows Jim's a good-looking guy, but this is the first time I've experienced him as beautiful. I look up at his face and meet knowing eyes. Heat flashes through my body again.

"Blair...." he purrs, bringing his arms down and reaching for his cock, beginning to touch himself. I experience another surprise. Normally, male masturbation tends to be a pretty big production--lots of movement of hand and hips, sound effects, etc. Jim is almost still. His one hand reaches behind his balls, his other rests on the shaft, just below its head. I can barely detect motion, small movements. He's got to have his dials up way high. The real show lies elsewhere in the small, quick flexes of his forearms, the twitching of muscles under the smooth skin of his chest, the quiet clenching of his thighs and abdominals. Jim's face....

I can see it in Jim's face. His eyes are half-closed, his facial muscles slack with lust and pleasure. "Blair," he whispers. "Feels so good... your beautiful eyes on me...."

Jim begins to writhe, to undulate on the sofa as if what he's feeling is too good to keep still anymore. It's a slow, sensuous movement, like a snake, or a cat's tail. The tiny movements of Jim's hands speed up, his breathing grows harsher, the cords on his neck tighten. I watch the sex flush appear on his chest and spread out.

Jim begins a soft, continuous grunting. His face is strained and eager. A series of shivers begin to run through his body, growing stronger until, finally, he cries out, "Oh... love you, Blair." And comes, his eyes never once leaving my face through all the contractions of his pleasure.

I think that was the most erotic thing I've ever seen. I'm so hard, I hurt. But I can't touch myself because Jim will misunderstand.

"Blair."

I look up. Oh shit. Jim rolls off the couch to the floor and does this predatory crawl over to me. I can smell his come on him as he gets closer. I'm starting to hyperventilate. Big time heterosexual panic going on here.

"You're hard," he whispers.

I shake my head frantically.

"Yes, you are," he insists. "You've been hard the whole time you were watching me." He closes his eyes and sniffs the air, turning his head from side to side like he's scenting prey. "You're so hard, you're leaking. You're ready to come right now. You _need_ to come."

No, no. I shake my head. I cover my crotch with my hands, useless as a cat scratching on linoleum. No, no.

"I can make it good for you, Blair. With my senses, I can make it the best you've ever had."

His voice is hypnotic. I stare into Jim's eyes, as frozen as some poor bird staring at a snake slithering closer.

He moves in, his head between my knees now. His eyes glow with lust and hunger. "Imagine my hot, wet mouth on your cock, my tongue swirling around the head, using my sentinel senses to find every sweet spot, every place that makes you gasp. I'd know when you were about to come and I could slow it down, prolong it for hours, until you were lost in sexual bliss. And then I'd make you come so hard, you'd scream yourself hoarse. And then you'd beg me to do it again."

That's what I'm afraid of. I'm gonna pop any second. I've got to get out of here. I can't stop staring into Jim's hungry eyes.

He smiles in triumph and reaches out his hand to pull down my zipper.

Okay, that's it. I'm outta here. I jump back and roll over the back of the couch. I race to my room, slam the door shut and lock it. I know Jim could kick it down in no seconds flat, but I have to trust he's not that far gone.

I'm breathing hard, pulling down my pants with clumsy fingers. I fall down on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut and frantically working my cock, pretending I don't know that Jim is plastered to the other side of the door, listening to every sound, smelling me, getting hard again. I think of Jim's hungry eyes and his voice whispering the dirty, wonderful things he wants to do to me and I gasp and come.

In the silence, right at the door where I knew he would be, I hear Jim moaning my name again and again. I roll over and stare out the window, pretending I'm not listening as hard as I can.

* * *

I have to read the morning paper to find out the Jags won. Damn. Missed a great game.

Jim's not happy with me after the rejection last night. He's been stiff and coldly polite all day. It was a crappy day at the station. Now we're home and I'm tired and I don't want to have the talk with him that we need to have.

Jim comes down the stairs, all dressed up.

"Where are you going?" I'm curious. He hasn't left the apartment, except to go to work, since this whole thing started.

He stands there, eyes hard, challenging me. "I've got a date with Heather."

Okaaay. That hurt. I'm surprised how much that hurt. Jim must see it because he takes this step towards me. I fling up my hand and he stops.

"Tell me," he says, voice low and coaxing. "Tell me that you don't want me to go. Tell me you want me to stay and I will."

Suddenly, I am furious that Jim is playing me like this. "Have a good time," I say cheerfully, between gritted teeth.

Jim's face closes down. "I always do." And then the bastard turns around and walks out.

I stand there, seething, for ten minutes until I'm sure he's out of hearing range. Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Surprised at how frustrated I feel, I kick the sides of the sofas over and over and throw cushions around. I enjoy my tantrum until it gets boring. And suddenly all I feel is sad.

I go into my room and bring out my meditation candles. I set them up in the living room and sit down, ready for a long session. I need to get back in balance and then....

Then I need to figure out how I feel about Jim Ellison. Jim, who can be such a total, manipulative dickhead. And whether Naomi's ever getting grandkids.

Around one o'clock, the sound of the key in the door wakes me. I start to curse my stupidity in falling asleep, because Jim will think I waited up for him. Then I get a good look at Jim and I know. "You slept with her."

Jim smiles. It's not a pleasant smile. "But, Chief, I thought about you the whole time. You were wonderful."

I stare at this guy in disbelief. "Poor Heather. Does she know she's just a blow-up doll to you?"

Something shifts in his eyes and suddenly he just looks tired. He sits down and rubs his hand over his face. "Look, Blair... just tell me you want me to stop seeing her, and I will."

I look at him and I'm too tired to hide what I'm feeling. I know my eyes show my hurt, my fear, my contempt, my affection and maybe the feelings I might be starting to have for my best friend.

Jim looks at me and stiffens, eyes searching mine with growing hope.

I stand up and say calmly, "I want you to stop seeing her." And then I turn, walk into my room and close the door. Bastard.

* * *

Jim knows he's in the doghouse. He's backed down completely. He's stopped teasing me. In fact, he's hiding all his sexual activities from me again, although I hear soft moans from his bedroom once in a while.

Jim's being polite, courteous, friendly. He's cooking dinner, making grocery runs, cleaning the house. He doesn't complain about my sloppiness or noise. Every once in a while, he tries to engage me in conversation, to which I respond politely until he stops. He's a complete Stepford Jim and I don't notice that he's drowning.

I'm too busy figuring out what I feel and what I'm going to do. I lose track of my Sentinel. I notice him as background and nothing more. I'm angry at Jim and terrified about what's going on, and maybe some small, mean part of me notices Jim's unhappiness and thinks it's karmic payback.

I'm continuing with my research. I've already consulted with a sex therapist, who was clear about the difficulties in dealing with this kind of addiction. He strongly urged me to not start a relationship until the addiction was treated.

"It will tear you apart," he said bluntly. "Sexual addiction is particularly difficult because the addict will try to charm you, he'll romance you, he'll beg you, he will lie and cheat on you, if necessary, to fulfill his addiction."

"He might not even feel he's doing anything wrong, putting the sex and love in separate, distinct boxes. You will experience pain, jealousy, feelings of betrayal. It's very human, very understandable, but that doesn't make it any easier to handle. Be very, very sure you can handle it. Because, if you walk out during treatment, your friend will lose any gains in behavior and sink back deeper, to combat his own pain."

Ouch.

I don't want this. I really, really don't want this.

I spend a lot of time away from the loft. I drive around, park and sit for hours thinking about my life, my hopes, my joy when I found my Sentinel.

The past three and a half years have been good, on balance. There have been tough times, times when Jim and I were driven apart, and I think about the pain I felt then. I think about how much I love women. I think about giving up and leaving Jim. Then I think about Jim looking for other lovers, perhaps even finding another Guide he can start the game over with, and the sharp pain in my chest startles me. Jealousy shakes me to the core and I realize that Jim is mine, _my_ Sentinel. I won't give him up.

Well, I guess that answers that. Still, I hesitate, thinking and rethinking, not wanting to take that final step.

Until, one day, I come home and take a good look at Jim.

Jim is sitting on the couch watching TV when I come through the door. Instead of going directly to my room, some instinct makes me enter the living room.

Jim looks strange. As I get closer, I realize he's jerking off on the couch. Only it doesn't feel right. His movements are listless and mechanical, his face joyless. His skin is waxy and I uneasily note the evidence of real weight loss. Something's wrong with Jim. Then I notice the tissues scattered around Jim's feet. There must be seven or eight, all crumpled up. I look back up at Jim and realize that he's been compulsively masturbating the whole time I've been out, one after the other, soothing himself like a baby sucking its thumb when mama's gone.

My anger made me forget how good Jim is at projecting a normal facade. The truth is he's fragile, his sense of reality unstable. Jim's been suffering and I've let it go on too long.

I put my hand on Jim's shoulder, waiting for him to look up at me. When I see the emptiness in his eyes, I shudder. Poor Jim. Time to stop this. "When you're done here, come into the kitchen. I'll make us some tea and we'll talk."

Jim closes his eyes and his face tightens. Then he nods.

I'm just pouring the boiling water over the chamomile teabags when he walks into the kitchen. I hand him a mug and we both stare into our tea, watching it steep.

I take a deep breath. "Jim, I need to apologize to you. I left you alone to deal with this and I shouldn't have."

"Are you leaving me?" Jim asks abruptly. His hand holding the tea is shaking. He sets it down on the counter with a thump. "Blair, I'm sorry I'm such an asshole. I just... I just got so angry and scared when you ran out on me, I wanted to hurt you. Jesus, I wanted to hurt my Guide."

I look at him steadily. "Well, you succeeded, Jim. It did hurt me. One day, you want me as a lover, and the next, you're with someone else. How am I supposed to believe you?"

"I broke up with Heather like you told me to." Jim's voice is filled with quiet self-loathing. "She cried, Blair. She told me she thought we were ready for marriage."

"Well, you were together for almost a year, Jim. It's pretty reasonable to make that kind of assumption," I point out drily. "I'm sorry for Heather's pain. She's a nice girl and I like her, but she's better off without you. You never loved her."

"No," Jim admits. His eyes watch me intently. "I love you."

I bite my lip nervously. This is the tough part. " _Do_ you love me, Jim? Because I'm thinking I'm just a bigger, better blow-up doll."

"No! Oh no, Blair." Jim grows agitated. He puts his hands on my shoulders, eyes fierce, willing me to believe him. "I love you, Blair. Please believe that. You're everything to me. Yes, I want you sexually. Yes, the sex is incredible. Yes, I know I need you for the sex. But, Blair... you're so much more than that. You're strong and smart and kind and beautiful. You make my life worth living." Jim looks away for a moment and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to lose you, Blair. If you don't want me, that's okay. We can go back to the way it used to be. We'll just love each other as friends. If that's the way you need it to be."

"Do you think it's even possible to do that? Go back to how it used to be?"

Jim closes his eyes for a moment. "I'll manage it somehow."

At that moment, I think maybe he actually believes he can. I clear my throat. "I'm kind of nervous here, Jim. You do remember that I'm straight. Right?"

Jim smiles. "I don't think you're as straight as you think you are, Blair."

"Well, maybe not anymore," I concede the point, smiling back at him. "But it's hard, Jim, changing my idea of myself. You pushed me too hard, too fast. You hurt me. I don't want to do this if all I'm going to get is hurt."

"Do you love me, Blair?" Hope fills Jim's eyes.

I take my time answering. "I think... I've always loved you, Jim. Am I _in_ love with you? I don't know. It never occurred to me that it was a possibility. I think maybe I could be. If I had time. If we went slow."

"I can do that, Blair! I can go slow." Jim is almost vibrating with eagerness. His eyes are shining and he's standing tall again.

I smile at him fondly, already planning this week's menu to bring his weight back up. I reach out and take his hand. His fingers clutch mine hard and then relax. "Drink your tea, Jim."

We stand there in the kitchen, drinking our tea, holding hands and grinning at each other like idiots.

"So, Jim, about that therapist...."

* * *

Jim does take it slow. He's not pushing me at all, letting me set the pace I'm comfortable with. He's still being discreet with his sex.

We sit on the couch, Jim's arm around me, holding me close. I lean into him, getting used to his smell, the strength of his body, the rumble of his voice when my head's on his chest. Jim's bigger and we fit together differently than I'm used to. Jim holds me, rather than the other way around. It feels good leaning into another warm body and I discover that I really like the smell of Jim's skin. I burrow my nose into his neck, taking in his warm, comforting smell, and Jim makes contented noises and runs his hand through my hair.

We watch TV and talk for hours. I'm acting so much the timid virgin that I annoy myself, but Jim is patient with me.

One evening, I'm getting up to go to bed and I look down at Jim and stop. On an impulse, I lean down, cup his face between my hands, and kiss him. It's sweet. I open my eyes and look into his... and I chicken out.

"Good night, Jim," I throw over my shoulder as I retreat to my bedroom.

The next night, Jim behaves himself like a gentleman, but I can sense the new tension. Halfway through the evening, I think, 'Fuck it.' "Jim, would you kiss me?"

Jim would. We spend the next hour necking like crazy. Aside from the difference in size and the whisker burn, I discover this is no different from women and I eagerly explore Jim's mouth. I'm lost in enjoyment when I realize that Jim's trying to pull away. I tighten my arms in protest.

"Blair," Jim groans, "let me go. Let me go."

"Don't want to," I mumble into his mouth.

"I can't control it, Blair. The dials are going crazy. If you don't let me go, I'm gonna come right here."

I open my eyes and look at Jim's frantic, flushed face. I'm hard myself and a thrill runs through me seeing how much I affect Jim. I take a deep breath. "Okay. It's okay. Do it, Jim."

"Are you _sure_ , Blair?" Jim looks torn, like he wants to do the right thing and he really wants to stay. The fact that he's even trying scores some big points with me.

Closing my eyes, I pull Jim's mouth back to mine. I hold him as he kisses me hungrily and shivers in my arms. I can feel his hard-on pushing against my hip, and it burns me even through two layers of clothing. I'm buzzing with adrenaline, hyper aware of every place where Jim's touching me. I swallow his moans as he comes, shaking with excitement myself. But when he puts his hand on me, I stop him and tell him quietly, "I'm not ready yet."

We lie on the couch, holding each other tight, until late into the night.

The next couple of days, I pull back. I smile at Jim and touch him frequently during the daytime, but I don't join him on the sofa at night.

I'm letting what happened vibrate through me, feeling the seachange in me.

Jim looks nervous, but he doesn't push me. He just leans into every reassuring touch I give him and waits for me.

Then, one night, after the supper dishes are washed and put away, I turn to Jim right there in the kitchen and ask, "Can I spend the night with you?"

Gently, Jim pulls me into his arms and holds me, his lips pressed against my forehead. We stand there in front of the sink, holding each other and feeling the weight of this moment in our lives.

Then Jim takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs to his bed.

* * *

I'm unsure of myself. No idea what to do here. Fortunately, Jim seems to have a plan. He's stripping the clothes off both of us, kissing my face, my hair, my shoulder, each part as it's revealed.

When we're both naked, Jim urges me onto the bed. He strokes my body gently, looking down at me. I'm kind of nervous here. Jim is really, really beautiful and I'm... me. Oh, I know I'm not ugly and the girls seem to like me just fine, but I'm nothing special, like Jim.

Only Jim doesn't seem to know that. After he looks me over, he leans down and begins to sniff and nuzzle me all over. He rests his head against my chest, listening to my heartbeat, and rubs his cheek over my chest hair. The expression on his face is blissful. He's sating himself with the tastes and textures of my body.

Slowly, I begin to relax, accepting that Jim's perception is different. I'm his guide; therefore, I'm perfect.

Jim comes back up and holds me. We lie side by side, gazing into each other's eyes. Jim's hand traces the features of my face, his expression so soft, so tender, that I catch my breath, heart slamming in my chest.

Oh God. He _does_ love me. Thank you, God. I close my eyes, feeling hot tears leak out. He really does love me and everything's going to be okay. I can take his love and bind him to me and protect him from himself. Relief and joy sing through my body until I shake with it.

"Blair? What's the matter?" Jim's arms tighten around me.

"Nothing. Nothing's the matter." I open my eyes, gazing into his fiercely, and tighten my arms possessively. "I'm just so _happy_ , Jim."

Jim smiles. "You love me," he tells me a bit smugly.

"Yes! I love you, Jim. I love you. I love you." I roll him over eagerly. Knowing how much he likes my hair, I begin to run my hair up and down his body.

Jim laughs and then moans. "Oh, feels so good, Blair. Don't stop."

I'm teasing him, shaking my head back and forth, slapping my hair over his skin. Jim is liking that. Suddenly, I find myself facing his cock. 'Hello, Jim's penis. Nice to meet you.' Giddy with happiness, I drop a kiss on the tip and shake my hair all over it.

Jim is laughing up there. "Blair, God, you have to stop or I'm going to come."

I leer up at him. "And that would be bad because...?"

"Because I'm not done with you yet, Chief!" Jim lunges at me and suddenly our positions are reversed. I'm on my back and Jim is in triumphant strategic command of my crotch. "You're gonna like this, Blair," Jim purrs and runs his tongue up my cock.

Oh yes, God. I like it. Very, very, very, very much. If there is a sound in the human range of expression that I do not utter during the next twenty minutes, I can't imagine what it could be. I channel my spirit animal a couple of times as well.

Jim is every bit as good as he claimed. With ruthless and exquisite precision, he works my cock until I lose every sense of personal reality, floating in a haze of ecstasy centering in his mouth. I am shaking and sobbing and thanking every deity I have ever come across in my travels. I had no idea that blow jobs like this even existed, let alone dreamed that I'd ever meet one. I am a happy, happy man when Jim finally allows me to come.

I lie there, gasping, absolutely overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of what just happened. Wow. Wow. Okay. Wow.

Jim crawls up my body, trembling with eagerness, and kisses me. Oh gee. Come is definitely an acquired taste. I kiss back politely. The man just gave me the most incredible blow job and if he can stand it, so can I.

"Blair, I have to.... I want to...." He reaches over the side of the bed, fumbling around. He comes up with a bottle of oil and proceeds to slick up his cock.

Oh, no. I start edging away. "Uh, Jim, man, I don't think I'm ready for this...."

Jim looks up at me, sees my fear. He puts the bottle back down and reassuringly pulls me into his arms. "Never, Blair. Never. Nothing you don't want. I promise."

He coaxes me onto my back and presses my thighs together. Gently, he moves into position over me and pushes his cock between my thighs, just below my balls. Oh. I can do this.

I relax in Jim's arms, looking up at him. The rhythmic motions are familiar and enjoyable, although I've never been on this side of it before. Jim moves above me, the length of his body warm on mine. He works his hands into my hair and gazes down at me with terrifying tenderness, occasionally leaning down to kiss me. "Blair... Blair..." he whispers into my mouth.

Eventually, Jim becomes lost inside himself, pumping faster and faster between my thighs, face strained with pleasure. Suddenly, he pulls up to his knees, holding his cock and aiming it down. Jim is shaking and gasping, but his eyes are pinned to his cock spraying come all over my chest. When the shaking subsides, Jim reaches out, touching a finger to the creamy splotches, and then he begins to rub it all over me, working it into my skin like a moisturizer. He is intent, mesmerized by the movement of his hands.

I watch him quietly, remembering the ritual I saw on the tape, perhaps understanding it a little better now. Finally, he lifts his eyes to mine, possessive triumph all over his face. "Mine!" he tells me fiercely.

I lift up my hand and place it over his heart. "Mine!" I answer him.

* * *

We're settling into a routine now. A lot of it's the same as it used to be, except that I sleep in Jim's bed now. Jim and I have been roommates for a long time and we suit each other. We go regularly to the therapist and we work through the exercises we're assigned, Jim acting like he's doing me a favor, but doing it anyway. He knows it's my number one condition for staying. Jim does not want to lose me.

I'm pleased to discover that I've adapted to gay sex pretty easily. Jim is an incredible lover, everything he promised me that night he tried to seduce me. He does make me beg and enjoys it thoroughly, the jerk.

Jim likes to do me first, savoring it like an appetizer before the main course. Then it's his turn. It's different than I would have expected. Sometimes, he'll go all primal on me, pouring himself over me like an unstoppable wave, hauling me around into whatever position makes me accessible to his immediate desire. Other times, he's totally passive in his pleasure. I might spend an hour just slowly running my tongue over the head of Jim's cock, while he lies there shuddering and crying out my name. I'll be cradling this vulnerable part of Jim in my mouth and feeling all-powerful. It's a real turn-on.

But if he can, he always wants his ritual of scent marking, claiming me with his come. Some mornings, I'll wake up and find Jim hovering over me, his face blissfully intent, sniffing his scent markings and the remnants of our activity on my crotch. More often than not, I'll get another blow job out of the deal.

One morning I woke up and it was our day off and I thought, 'What the hell.'

So, I didn't shower that morning. And you should have seen Jim strutting his stuff, treating me like arm candy, with his hand on my back and opening doors and glaring at people who didn't get out of my way fast enough to suit him. It was really funny, in an endearing way. I don't think Jim gets that people don't see me the way he does and I'm not telling him anytime soon.

I'm saving a repeat performance for when Jim does something special and I want to show my Sentinel how proud I am of him, enough to let him claim me in public like that.

It doesn't hurt that my sex life has got quantity, as well as quality, now. Jim is willing to give it to me any time, any place, any way I want it. I can be sitting in front of the TV, entertaining mildly lustful thoughts over some pretty girl on the tube, and Jim will smell it and be right there, offering to go down on me.

I felt guilty at first, because Jim's been cut back to once a night. I do my best to make sure his one time is perfect for him, and Jim is vocal in his appreciation. But it doesn't seem fair to me that I can have sex as often as I want and Jim has to keep his dials down. He can be giving me the most fantastic blow job and his cock will stay limp. I worried that I was using him and he would start to resent me. But I've discovered that if I don't take him up on it, he'll become anxious and fall off the wagon. And the more he pleases me sexually, the calmer and more relaxed he is.

Sex is so important to Jim, the center of his life, that he needs to feel he's as important to me in that regard. That I'm addicted to him, too. Because anything less means that someday I could leave him. That anxiety builds up in him and then he acts out in aggressive and dangerous ways, including public displays and picking up strangers. So, all in all, I find it's better to reassure Jim and submit to mind-blowing sex. Poor me.

Life's not perfect. It gets hard when Jim's sulking and trying to con me. I feel sorry for myself and wonder why I have to be the adult, the bad cop, monitoring his behavior, giving out and withholding rewards. Sometimes, I'm nostalgic for the Good Old Days when I was blissfully ignorant and best friends with this simple, gruff, marshmallow-center cop who took me in when he didn't have to and made me a part of his life. We used to have such good times. I really loved that guy.

No, that's not fair. Jim is still that guy and we still have fun. It wasn't a lie. Those characteristics are a real part of Jim and they're all still there. It's just not all of him anymore. The addiction brought out parts of him that all humans have and generally manage to suppress. And I do love this Jim, too. With all my heart.

Jim is my Sentinel, my best friend, my lover. I'm his Guide and I'll do whatever it takes to protect him. Tough love, man.

* * *

 _Epilogue_

I always knew Blair loved me. But now, when I look at him, he's looking back at me. Now, when he comes, it's because I'm touching him and it's allowed. The power he gives me when he's writhing and moaning in my hands feels so good. I'm giving back to him what he's given me. I'm pleasing Blair. And he loves me for it.

Now I know he sees all of me, the good and the bad, and he's never going to leave me. We're together in all things. Jim and Blair. Sentinel and Guide. Lover and... lover.

I do complain about the frequency sometimes. Blair and the therapist are pretty firm about this sex addict thing, though. Blair's detection skills are sharp for a non-Sentinel, so I try to go along with it philosophically.

After all, I've been Blair's lover for years now and I know it's normal for lovemaking to slow down eventually.

What Blair and I have now is better than I could ever have dreamed and I would never choose to go back to the way it used to be. But...

Sometimes, late at night when Blair's deep asleep and I'm feeling restless, I'll crawl silently out of bed and stand there in the dark, looking down at Blair, and touch myself oh so sweetly... remembering the days when Blair was my secret lover and I could have him whenever I wanted.


End file.
